Vengeance
by IEezAsian
Summary: Greed creates things. Not too pretty things either. Greed changes the normal life of a Courier as he is killed by it. Now, he seeks vengeance against greed, but how can he defeat it when he has it inside of him? Note: Mature language. NCR Ending


**Author's Note: Haven't written in a long time... Lovin' FO: New Vegas :) Enjoy!**

**Note: In the beginning, I just didn't feel that Goodsprings was a place I'd want my character to be. I kinda changed the plot a bit too. Hope it doesn't affect the story for you!**

**Thanks to Radio Free Death for giving me tips to revise!**

* * *

_**Chapter One**_

* * *

_You can't stop human instincts. Instincts like pride, lust, greed._

_Especially greed. Greed had started the war._

_Greed had pushed the button, creating the atomic fire that consumed the world. It was the beginning of the end, the final apocalypse everyone knew would come. It spread like cancer upon the Earth's surface and scorched everything in its path, leaving the people to fend for themselves in enormous underground vaults. The remainder of the surviving humans lived there normal lives in the vaults, day after day, month after month, year after year, until something happened. A miracle happened._

_The vaults were opened._

_When the vaults revealed what was left of the relentless Mojave, the inhabitants began to create societies again, establish new villages, and form new tribes._

_As decades passed, the NCR, known as the New California Republic, was set on creating a world with old world values of democracy and law. As people joined the NCR, it's need to expand was increased. Scouts scoured the entire Mojave wasteland for the safe haven, and they returned with the tales of a place untouched by the nuclear flames that destroyed the rest of the world and a great wall spanning the Colorado River. It was the perfect sanctuary. As it always has, greed kicked in again and the NCR wanted it all to itself._

_The NCR set it's eye on the Hoover Dam, looking to restore it to working order. However, another tribe, raising the crimson flag of a golden bull, marching to the beat of the drum, was Caesar's Legion. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes, Caesar's Legion was a force to be reckoned with. Lead by the infamous Caesar and angered by the invasion of the profligates, the Legion was ordered to capture the dam, no matter what the cost, no matter how many men saw the white light. The Legion attacked the Dam, fresh new recruits followed by high commanding officers, but the NCR was sure of what to do. Veteran NCR Rangers and 1st Recon dispatched all the commanding officers, leaving the young and leaderless charging into Boulder City. Had they known that the whole city was rigged with explosive C-4, tens of thousands of young men wouldn't have had to die. The Legion was humiliated, losing the most troops in any battle. Caesar, enraged with the Legion lying in the dust of defeat, had his commanding officer burned in dark pitch, burned alive, and thrown down a cliff. Nothing had changed. All of the war had been futile, with the NCR still in control of the Hoover Dam, not even a dent in their armor._

_Four years have passed since the Republic have held the dam against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the Colorado, they gathered strength, awaiting the day where they could let the rivers of blood flow from their sworn enemies and to claim their glory again. The Legion would not give up. Not until the heads of the NCR were mounted on their spears. If they lost this final battle, it would truly be the end to the Legion, and Caesar, no matter the cost, would not allow it.._

_Through it all, the New Vegas Strip stayed open for business under the control of it's mysterious overseer, Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots. He took care of New Vegas, as a mother would for her child. However, Mr. House enforced a world of efficiency, even if it costs the citizens their free will. His image of the perfect world was one run by routine. Securitrons spread across the Vegas Strip and kept the Tribals from getting in conflict._

_I am a Courier, hired by the Mojave Express to deliver a small package to the New Vegas Strip, a small tiny box. But, what was inside the tiny box had gotten me killed, turning my life around._

_For the worse._

* * *

I woke up to murmurs, whispers I could not understand. There were two distinct voices.

"You got what you were after, so pay up."

"Ha, you're cryin' in the rain, pally."

_Ugh... my head... The hell happened? Why can't I move my hands_? _Why is it so dark in here?_

"Hey, guess who's waking up over here?" A new third voice, deep and gruff.

The arid aroma of the burlap bag was one I knew too well. I fumbled to get up, almost losing my balance, and fell to my knees. A hand wrenched the bag off of my face, cool, midnight air whispering in my ears. I opened my sand crusted eyes and squinted in the burning torch lights. They were the only two things glowing under the dark night sky. They illuminated the face of a young man, maybe twenty-five, with greased up hair and a checkered suit. I'll never forget the look in his eyes. They were eyes of greed. Eyes that I knew much too well. Eyes that created chaos. I rubbed my sandy eyes when I realized, my hands were tied together. Beside the checkered suit man were two Great Khans, one of them a buff Latino, the other a young Caucasian teenager. The checkered-suit dug into his suit, pulling out a lighter and cigarette and proceeded to smoke it. I decided at that moment I would call him Checkers. Seemed fitting for the look.

The two Khans started to look impatient, waiting for their pay.

With a look of pity, Checkers sighed and blew a puff of smoke. "Time to cash out."

"Damn, would you get it over with?" the Latino demanded, crossing his arms with a steely glare.

Checkers held up his hand, silencing him at once.

"Shut the fuck up, McMurphy. I didn't pay you to lecture me. Maybe you Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?" Checkers snapped.

McMurphy. One more name to add to my blacklist.

Checkers reached in his coat pocket and took out a small cardboard box.

"Remember this?" he asked, waving it in front of my face like it was a piece of gold.

It was a box, what else could it be? Then I saw the logo on the front side. It seemed familiar, even through the grogginess of my head. The sign of an eagle, blazed across an old world American flag. _Wait a second_, I thought. _Oh shit._ The sign of the Mojave Express.

_That's my package._

Flicking out a switchblade, Checkers sliced open the rough string and opened the steel box. and pulled out a small poker chip. _All this trouble for a poker chip?_ I inspected closer and found that the chip didn't have the famous logos of the casinos in the New Vegas Strip. It was instead replaced with the initials L.38. Checkers stared at the treasure in his hands. He then put it back in his suit pocket. He spat out his cigarette into the grainy sand, patting it lightly with his leather shoe, a small ember hissing in defeat. From inside of his suit pocket, he unveiled another surprise.

A small golden 9mm.

"You've made your last delivery, kid."

At that moment, I knew I was fucked. Death was about to shake my hand and welcome me to Hell. But I'd have to decline his invitation. As a desperate last move, I reached for my .357, but to no avail, I only grabbed air. Checkers snickered, and his face will never escape my memory.

"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." Checkers apologized sarcastically.

"Let me tell you why that's bullshit..." McMurphy murmured, resulting in a sideways glare from Checkers.

"You'd better be ready for hell, because I'll be there to give it to you." I seethed through my teeth.

Checkers gave a small chuckle.

"Feisty one, aren't cha? Well, from where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. But, truth is..."

He cocked the gun into place. I looked down the barrel. All of my remaining life was dependent in that one bullet.

"The game was rigged from the start."

I shook hands with Death.

But instead, Death rejected my invitation.

* * *

_Pain. _

_Everywhere._

_Going to vomit._

_Hungry._

"Can... hear... me?" A comforting voice said.

"Wh-what?" I mumbled.

"Can - you - hear - me?" the voice demanded, growing louder.

I struggled to open my mouth, but it was locked by dryness.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. CAN. YOU. HEAR. ME." By this third attempt, all the patience had left the voice.

"Y-yes..." I managed to wheeze out of my two useless air filters.

"Oh, good, I thought my operation killed you..." said the voice in obvious relief, with a sigh. "That bullet was lodged deep in your noggin."

"Am I in heaven?" I asked groggily.

"Well, you sure ain't in Hell yet."

I cracked my eyes open and sun stabbed my two eyes. I squinted at the brightness of the rays through the window. I pushed myself up a few inches until the train holding nausea smashed into my stomach. I flopped down back onto the bed, tilting my head sideways, looking for something to puke on.

"Well, I brought you some soup, 'cause you're lookin' sick and-"

I just couldn't contain myself.

"OH. MY. JOSEPH AND MARY, CHRIST. MY SHOES. MY GODDAMN SHOES." He exhaled heavily. "Calm Frank, calm... patients are like this. They get sick," the doctor mumbled, flicking his head to side, "I am capable. I can deal with this." Another long exhale escaped his lungs.

"Sorry." I said weakly, lifting up my limp free arm to wipe the bile from my mouth.

"Well, this is sure a nice start, ain't it?"

* * *

The doctor was a pretty nice guy, considering I had just puked on the special leather boots.

He looked like a pretty average man, about the same age as I was, shortly cut hair, with his chocolate colored skin. Speaking of chocolate, I was dying for some food. Literally. My stomach was about to commence eating itself.

After takin off the bile-covered boots, he sat down in front of me and spoon-fed me some gecko soup, and surprisingly, it alleviated my wave of nausea.

"Here, you might be needin' this. You've been sleeping for 3 days now, and I'd suggest you don't take a rest at the moment, unless you want to turn nocturnal." he advised, throwing me a Stimpak after he put the soup bowl in his sink.

"Um... thanks. I won't." I peeled of the plastic top and stuck the needle into my forearm. I pushed the plunger deep, the warm red substance creeping the the walls of my arteries. It was frigid in the morning, and the warmth that it brought all over me was probably the best feeling by far. I sat there for minutes, pondering my situation.

Moments of awkward silence was getting a bit unbearable for me, so I broke the ice.

"My name's Alex. Alex Barrick. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Frank. Frank Elam. Thanks for the free bile."

"Yeah... don't mention it."

A moment of awkward silence.

"Well, how did you find me?"

Frank started to explain, when a large explosion rumbled the very foundation of the small cottage.

"The hell was that? Are we under attack?" I questioned, almost on the verge of panicking. Running across the Mojave to deliver packages makes you experienced. And being experienced does not make you prepared, it just makes you scared of every damn sound.

"Nah, just those gangs out North who have nothin' to do but throw dynamite and see what happens when you blow up a dead corpse twenty times. It's nothin'. Really." Frank assured me, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

A few more explosions passed, then stopped abruptly, making me very uncomfortable.

"Don't worry about it, they do that everyday and never come near this house. Now, about the question you were askin' me earlier, I was hunting geckos a two days ago when I saw two torchlights in the darkness. I was lookin' through my binoculars and saw a man with a checkered suit standin' in the midst of a few gang members."

_Checkers._

"He was talkin' to a man kneeling down in front of him, which, I guess, was you. After he shot you in the face and left you in the grave, I jogged near the hill and listened for any other gang members before I dug you out of your grave. Then I carried you back to my house, and, God, you were the heaviest thing I have ever carried, it was like twenty geckos strapped to my back, like I had to carry a super mutant, like I had to walk with a Bighorner strapped to my legs, like I had to-"

"I get it. More details, please?"

"Oh. Right. Ha. I carried you home, along with a sack with all your stuff in it. Surprisin'ly, you had a lot of guns, but most of them broke."

"What? How?"

"Well, since both of my arms were used to carry you, I kinda had to kick the bag to my house."

"You WHAT-?"

"Don't worry, your .357 was fine!"

"And...?"

"Yeeeah, that's it."

"FRANK!"

* * *

I searched my burlap sack of firearms. Cowboy Repeater, front barrel, dented in. Varmint Rifle, magazine broke and lever cracked. 9mm pistol, no magazines at all. At least I had a pile of .357's.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, my foot hurt when I kicked them..."

I exhaled a deep breath of air. Well, my loyal .357 was still good and fine. I gripped the guns cold metal grip and spun the cylinder a few times. Even weeks without grease, it spun beautifully, and each click was music to my ears.

"Here's a few caps, to repay for the medical care."

He held both of his hands. "No, just consider it a freebie." he said. "Got a name for that gun?"

"A name? Why would a gun need a name?"

"Well, it's kind of like family, ya know? It protects you and provides food."

"If Geckos count as food, forget it."

"So you aren't gonna give it a name, picky eater?"

I gave it a moment of thought.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Well, does Marcus sound nice?"

"Yeah, sure it does. If you're a little toddler with a pellet gun."

I gave him the universal sign of "fuck off".

I loaded a cold bullet into each chamber and clicked it into place. _I'll think of something..._

"Wait, before you leave, there's something you need." Frank said, as he searched through one of his wooden chests. "Ah, here it is..." he said nostalgically. Gently grabbing my arm, he cuffed on, what seemed like, a handheld computer. As soon as it touched my skin, it sealed onto my forearm, like an air seal. Frank patted it a bit, and after, he walked over and grabbed my Magnum. He strolled over calmly and took my arm.

"Um... Frank. I... don't think you should be playing with that, it's-"

And he cocked the gun, and shot my arm two times.

"GOD, what the holy Christ!? WHY DID YOU-" I shrieked, eyes widening to the point of popping out.

"This is something you NEED. Called a Pip-Boy."

"I don't really care, you just shot me TWICE in my arm!" I shouted, pointing to my wounded arm.

"That was an example. Keeps track of everything. Notes, Armor, Weapons, everything. It's even connected to you're body to see how everything is functioning in your body. I think you'll like it. See, look, you see this? See where it says "crippled"? Amazing isn't it?"

"Well, you could have just told me instead of shooting me!"

Frank waved it off and stuck a Stimpak in the supposedly "crippled" areas. It started to heal almost immediately, flesh sticking together and pushing out the two bullets, little by little.

"Well, I don't need a watch to tell me I'm hurt when I know I got shot, but it's a nice little gadget, I guess," I said, rubbing my sore arm. "Who did you get it from?"

"My Pops. He gave it to me when the vaults were open. It was the day he left me too."

"Oh. Well, I-I..." I stammered. I wasn't really too good with apologies. "I'm terribly sorry about your dad." I said.

He smiled, my dry lips cracking. "It's fine. I'm used to heartbreak."

"Heartbreak?"

"Ha, well, God must really enjoy torturing me. My wife left me too for another man. Said he was 'cooler' than me, and let me tell you, that was pure, 100% bullshit! So one night, when they were making love in the living quarters, I purposely sprayed chili sauce on their condom, outside and inside!. Ha!" he beamed, heartily laughing and slapping his knee.

I smiled back. You had to give the man some credit.

* * *

Giving him a firm handshake, I thanked him, and was about to walk out the door when I had an idea.

"Hey, Frank, you haven't been outside a lot, have you?"

Frank gave me a puzzled look. "Um, yeah, only going out to hunt for geckos. It's a pretty dangerous world out there. Why?"

"What if I could give you a chance to explore the world without the dangers? I kind of need a doctor to help me."

He was confused for a moment, then lightened up immediately. "Really?"

"Why not?"

"I'll get packed as soon as I can!" he chirped, and prepared a suitcase.

* * *

"Why in the world would you pack a cup?" I cried, exasperated.

"Well, what if I need a drink? I don't want to use my dirty hands."

I stared at him for a while, then shook my head. He may be a bit wrong in the head, but he was a pretty good guy.

"Let's get going."

I walked outside into the bright sunlight, putting on my cattleman's cowboy hat for shade.

Frank, however, stumbled out of the house, muttering, "That goddamn step gets me every time..."

We started to walk down the road, when I realized I didn't have a clue as to where I was going.

"Hey, Frank, did you see where the checkered suit man was going?"

"Due north, towards Primm."

"That's south."

"Eh, potato, tomato."

* * *

_Meanwhile, at the New Vegas Strip..._

* * *

"Jane?"

"Yes, Mr. House?"

"Activate the tracking system for the Platinum Chip immediately."

"Of course, Mr. House."

THe automaton rolled off to the terminal, plugging in it's cords into the female port of the computer, downloading and uploading software.

"Tracking protocol, complete, Mr. House."

"Present location?"

"Leaving Goodsprings, Mr. House."

"Interesting. Tell Victor to reach this Courier and help him capture Benny."

"At once, Mr. House."

House thought solemnly about this dilemma.

_I will not lose the Platinum Chip, especially after so many years of searching for it._

After more thinking, he reached his final conclusion.

_The platinum chip must be recovered, even if it means the death of the Courier._


End file.
